


the wrath of grapes

by kim47



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-19
Updated: 2012-09-19
Packaged: 2017-11-14 14:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/516500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kim47/pseuds/kim47
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Danny rereads the message with one eye closed, hands half-covering his face, wondering if it's possible to actually perish from embarrassment. At this point, it's looking like the most rewarding option.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>For the prompt: Danny gets drunk and writes a letter to Jackson telling him he's definitely his type but he never means for Jackson to find the letter or write him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the wrath of grapes

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted some practice writing these two. Also I love them. Thanks to callmejude for looking this over <3

Danny's not sure how long he's been staring at his front door. He can't even really remember how he got here.

There was a party, that much he knows.. And alcohol. Much of which was consumed by him. After that things are a little hazy.

Danny frowns, staring at the door handle. He needs to go inside. So he should open the door. So he needs to turn the door handle. 

Right. 

It takes him three tries to get the door open, and then ten minutes to find his bedroom. 

Jesus fuck, he has never been this drunk in his _life_. 

He manages to tip himself onto his bed, but when he lies back he finds that the ceiling is spinning rapidly, not to mention the ridiculous manner in which his bed is lurching like it’s trying to throw him off. He’s just wondering the best way to make it stop when his phone beeps.

Huh.

It's in the pocket of his jeans, which are on the floor (when did he take them off?), and he stares at them for a while, too, hoping they'll somehow end up within arm's reach without him having to move. Danny's pretty sure that if he moves, he's either going to throw up or trip over and crack his head open on something. 

When his jeans show no signs of voluntary movement, he heaves himself off the bed and fumbles the phone out of the pocket. It's blindingly bright, a sharp, searing pain behind his eyes, and he half-squint half-glares at the screen.

**From: Jackson  
** are you still alive dumbass? you should  
never drink that much ever. drink some  
water, take some asprin, and go to bed  
moron. 

Danny grins at the screen. _Jackson_. That's how he got from very-drunk-at-a-party to his front steps. Awesome, dependable Jackson.

Okay, not dependable, exactly, but awesome, definitely. Pretty, too.

He remembers now, Jackson propping him up against the front of the house as he unlocked the door, swearing when his phone rang, and then swearing at the person on the other end.

"Danny, you gonna be okay man?" he said, turning back to Danny and frowning. "I gotta go pick Lydia up, her car broke down. Apparently not being her boyfriend anymore doesn't spare me from having to fix every fucking problem she has."

Danny smiled amicably and nodded, and possibly slurred out something in the affirmative.

And then stared at his door for god knows how long.

He starts typing out a reply, but his fingers seem way too big for the screen and he can't get the letters to go in the right order _goddammit_. He tosses his phone to the floor, flops back on his bed, and instantly regrets the sudden motion when the entire world seems to tilt ninety degrees.

Danny has no real sense of how time is passing, it might be one minute or half an hour before he drags himself up to get a glass of water and stubs his toe on his computer.

And has a genius idea.

He’ll send Jackson an email. It's a clearly brilliant plan - computer keys are way bigger than the ones on his phone and everything is just _easier_.

It takes him a little while to get his laptop on and find himself in his mail client (he also gets a tiny little bit distracted by some porn, but he's a teenage guy it's practically expected okay, and the bottom looks _freakishly_ like Jackson, Danny would be embarrassed to watch it if it wasn't the hottest thing _ever_ ) and to remember what Jackson's email address is. And then he starts typing.

 

_jackson_

_thanks for takin me home man youre the best. sorry im so drunk was just in the moood to get shitfaced yknow and it s easier when your around cuz i know you got my back. i think i wanted to get wasted probly becasue i broke up with alex? i know you hated him. he was kind of a dick but then so are you and i like you just fine. alex said iwas in love with you and i should just suck your dick instead. i told him he as an asshole but he didnt really care. i mean he was right but its still a stpuid thing to say.  
anyway please dont tell anyone its a secret but whenever i say youre not my type its a lie. well not completely cuz youre straight and straight isnt my type but apart from that you are. dont tell anyone okay? especially jackson. thanks man love you._

 

Danny falls asleep with the satisfaction of a job well done.

*

He wakes up feeling like utter _shit_ , which is no surprise but still sucks. His head is throbbing and his tongue feels fuzzy and gross and he suspects he's going to throw up the moment he moves. He groans pitifully into his pillow and wishes for someone to bring him asprin, water and the blackest, sweetest coffee known to man.

When it doesn't materialise, he slowly drags himself into a sitting position and contemplates what he needs and what order he needs them in and how he can make sure he never consumes another drop of alcohol again _ever_. Eventually, he staggers to the bathroom and downs a glass of water, then some aspirin, then takes a lukewarm shower. 

None of it makes him feel the slightest bit better.

Coffee is not worth attempting the stairs, and he crawls back onto his bed. The sheets are cool and it feels amazing to be still, but he can’t get comfortable. There's something digging into his hip, and it takes a few moments of ginger manoeuvring to dislodge it.

It turns out to be his laptop.

Huh. He doesn't know how it ended up on his bed, he's pretty sure he left it charging on the floor before he went out last night.

A vague memory surfaces, something about sending an email? Although who could he possibly have been emailing at two in the morning - 

_Shit_.

Danny throws it open and waits impatiently for it to wake up, hitting return uselessly until the screen comes on. His heart is fucking _pounding_ because he can't remember exactly what he wrote last night but he has enough vague ideas to make him sicker than his hangover has. He goes straight to his sent messages, needing to know the worst as soon as possible and -

Holy fucking _shit_. 

Danny rereads the message with one eye closed, hands half-covering his face, wondering if it's possible to actually perish from embarrassment. At this point, it's looking like the most rewarding option.

Fuck.

Should he email Jackson and tell him to ignore it, pass it off as drunken rambling? Pretend it never happened? Ask him to delete it and forget about it?

Except Jackson won't, Jackson is awful at just letting things go, he likes to nag and worry and prod until shit blows up in his face. 

Danny closes the laptop and groans. He shoves it away and crawls under the covers. He's never moving again.

*

He's going to blame it on his hangover, the fact that he doesn't think to check if Jackson replied, that he just lies there and stews in his own embarrassment and panic over telling his (straight, asshole of a) best friend that he's in love with him, until he eventually falls into a doze.

There’s someone banging on his front door, it feels like they’re hammering the inside of his head, and he moans piteously for them to go away. They don’t, of course, because that’s the kind of day Danny’s having. The next thing he knows is there are feet thumping up the stairs and his door is being thrown open and Jackson’s standing there, in the middle of his bedroom, looking exasperated, gorgeous and faintly worried.

“What are you doing here?” Danny manages, struggling to sit up.

“Making sure you didn’t choke on your own vomit,” Jackson retorts, crossing the room and standing next to the bed. He crosses his arms and frowns down at Danny, who resists the urge to pull the covers over his head.

“What were you gonna do if I had?”

“Call your parents, make sure you got a nice funeral, that kind of thing.”

“You’re a good friend, Jackson.” He means for it to come out sarcastically, but that apparently requires a level of vocal agility he’s not up to right now, and it just sounds sincere. Dammit. 

And then there’s silence, and it’s fucking awkward in a way it’s _never_ been between them. Danny hates it more than Jackson yelling at him or telling him to back off or anything else that might happen, and he’s just about to say something, to ask Jackson to forget about it, to apologise, _something_ , when Jackson speaks again.

“I’m guessing you didn’t read my email,” he says.

Danny blinks.

“Your...what?”

“Email? You know, electronic messages you send via the internet? You seemed to have no trouble understanding the concept last night.” Is he...Jackson is _smirking_ , and if Danny didn’t feel about five minutes away from death he would absolutely kick Jackson’s ass right now. He honestly did not expect Jackson to mock him about this.

“Look, if you’re gonna be like that - ”

Jackson huffs, this weird little exasperated, long-suffering huff that Danny practically patented when dealing with Jackson, sits down on the bed, fists his hand in the front of Danny’s t-shirt, and kisses him.

On the mouth.

With his mouth.

As first kisses go, it’s pretty awful; Danny’s head is still aching, and Jackson yanking him forward did not help with that at all, and he hasn’t brushed his teeth, and he has _absolutely no idea what’s going on_. After a moment Jackson pulls back, sighs again, and reaches across Danny to pick up his laptop.

Danny watches, silently, and wonders if it’s possible he’s still asleep.

Jackson drops his computer in his lap and says, “Read.”

Danny’s eyes slowly focus on the screen.

 

_Seriously Danny, you have to be completely wasted to tell me this? I fucking knew I was your type, and if you think I’m going to let you pretend this was just a drunken mistake, that you didn’t mean it, you’re an idiot. I’m coming over this afternoon. If you die of alcohol poisoning before I get to fuck you, I’m gonna be pissed._

 

He raises his eyes to Jackson’s. Jackson looks, oh, about ninety percent smug and maybe ten percent apprehensive, and Danny’s mind is spinning, trying to properly grasp what Jackson’s message says, and it’s so totally unfair that he has to deal with this in his current state.

“I think,” he says slowly, like he’s puzzling it out, “I’m not sure, but I _think_ that’s the least romantic proposition anyone has received. Ever.”

Jackson laughs (way, way too loud, but Danny’s not complaining), shoves the computer out of Danny’s lap, and kisses him again. 

“No offense, dude,” Jackson says after a moment, and Danny can’t help but whine a little in protest at the withdrawal of Jackson’s lips, “but you taste like ass.”

There are so many, many wonderful jokes to be made there, but Danny wisely sticks to, “I feel like ass.”

Jackson kisses him again, close-mouthed, then stands up. “This is the last time this will ever happen, so savour it, but I’m gonna go get you coffee and something artery-clogging to eat, okay? Just...stay there and try not to whimper too much.”

Danny stares at him. “I love you.”

Jackson grins at him, this wide, shit-eating grin that he almost never shows anyone, that Danny was always totally powerless against. 

"Damn right you do," he says.


End file.
